


unlocking

by glim



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, Libraries, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, POV Bucky Barnes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: Written for Shrinkyclinks Fest for the prompt: Winter Soldier Bucky is recovering and trying to learn about/integrate into society. So, to kill two birds with one stone, he goes to the library. Steve is the librarian in charge of the history section.





	unlocking

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods for running this fest! 
> 
> Thank you to azile_teacup for a quick beta and reassurance before posting. 
> 
> You can listen to a short playlist for this fic [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhDnyPsQsB0&list=PLS_Dh70d7iEeatUGbHLhK_c_TPv86NYvO).

_i._

Springtime in New York City smells like cool rain on concrete, like new grass pushing up out of fresh dirt between the hazards of car exhaust and the constand tread of hurried footsteps. The days are longer and warmer, though the early mornings and late evenings still hold that last, sharp chill of winter. 

Springtime in New York City, Bucky realizes with a relief that is all-encompassing, feels almost the same as it did when he was a kid. The city still moves like a blur around him and though the sounds and sights have changed, there is something in the way the air tastes and smells just after dawn in the spring that is inimitably the same. Fresh, cold air that is just about ready to carry the warmth of the sun. 

Bucky pushes his hair into a ponytail and stretches his shoulders. He's been awake for a few hours now, not able to sleep past the thoughts that crowd his mind and sometimes make his chest tighten with anxiety. It wasn't so bad last night, that tightness, but his mind was restless and confused; walking down to the library helped him feel better, clearer, less likely to fall into the depths of his own mind. 

His favorite place these days is the NYPL main branch. Well, technically, his favorite place in the city are the steps that lead up to the library. Here, Bucky can sit and watch the world stream around him, parting and flowing in different directions. He like this about the city: the everchanging, neverchanging newness of it all. 

The mix of mid-morning air and nostalgia makes him want a cup of black coffee and a cigarette. Later, Bucky thinks, he won't smoke before he goes to talk to Steve. He takes one last look at the street in front of the building and tugs at the glove on his left hand, making certain once more it's covered. Steve knows--Steve _has_ to know, Stark set up their meeting, but... something inside Bucky cringes at the thought of Steve having to see Bucky's own history written on his body. 

The building is quiet when Bucky walks in--they've only been open a few minutes--a hush falling over him that is at once soft, secret, and comforting. His steps are just as soft as he winds his way through the reading room to Steve's small office at the back of the local history and genealogy division. 

Lingering in the doorway for a moment to watch Steve, Bucky feels something between hope and relief as he does. Steve's reading and taking notes, his glasses slipping down his nose and his blond hair falling into his eyes, the window behind him spilling sunlight over his desk. 

He could do this every morning. He could walk to the library every morning, without any intent to do any reading of his own, just to bring Steve coffee or tea and to watch him look up with a sudden, shy, pleased smile as soon as he notices Bucky standing in the door to his office. 

"Hey, Buck," Steve says without putting down the papers he's rifling through. "You're about three hours earlier than usual." 

"Hey, Steve." Bucky looks aside, then back at Steve, and hope wells in his chest again when Steve smiles. "I couldn't sleep, so..." 

"You thought you'd read your way through the rest of the twentieth-century? I have stuff for you, by the way." Steve smiles again, this time bright and quick, and leans away from his desk to stretch his shoulders. He gives Bucky a closer look, then, and nods when Bucky tries to huddle down into his black leather jacket. "You can read in here, if you want to today." 

Steve's office is all sunlight and the scent of strongly brewed tea over the dry, faint scent of old paper, and Bucky wants nothing more than to sit down across from Steve and bask in that warmth. He hesitates, though, and wonders if maybe Steve doesn't realize that he doesn't need to be _that_ nice to Bucky. That he wouldn't be that nice to Bucky if he knew more about him.... 

"Come read in here," Steve says. He nods toward the small sofa in his office, then stands from his desk when he realizes it's covered in books and a blanket. "Just give me a minute--" 

"It's fine, I can... here, Steven," Bucky murmurs and picks up the blue, soft knit blanket himself to fold the it into a neat square and tuck it into a corner of the sofa. His face must look curious when he turns to Steve, because Steve flushes a little and then busies himself with the books. 

"I stay late sometimes, and I... I don't _sleep_ in my office, and you didn't even sleep at all last night, so don't give me that look, Barnes." 

Bucky says nothing, but after he settles himself down at the sofa while Steve goes back to his desk, all he can think about is Steve curled up in the corner of the sofa, tired, maybe a little cold, and what it might be like to have Steve curled up against his side, instead. 

"I pulled the papers you wanted to look at from the archives," Steve says and places a neat stack of folders onto the sofa next to Bucky. His blond hair falls into his eyes again and he shrugs it aside, then aims a quick smile in Bucky's direction. "Let me know if you need anything else." 

Bucky smiles and nods, grateful. Steve's not from Manhattan, he's from Brooklyn, just like Bucky is, and the sound of his voice makes Bucky yearn for home in way he hasn't felt in years. 

He's happy here, though, in Steve's office, listening to Steve work while he reads, knowing that the days he spends in here instead of the reading room will be rare. 

This morning, though, after a night of hardly any sleep and a morning full of memories, he's grateful to be in Steve's office and to see how the sunlight spills gold across his desk. 

 

_ii._

Bucky's bent over two open books and has six pages of notes when a light touch rests on his shoulder. He knows Steve by the sound of his steps and the weight of his hand; today, he can hear the faintest catch in his breathing, something that's not quite a wheeze, but not quite normal either. 

"You were out on Tuesday..." Bucky leans into the touch, though the contact only lasts a moment before Steve shifts to lean against the table. 

He shrugs. "Yeah, it was nothing." 

Bucky frowns. "You're never out." 

That makes Steve laugh. "God, wait until fall and winter when my asthma's really a mess. It was no big deal, I just wasn't feeling great." 

The wheeze, Bucky realizes, the roughness of his voice and the faint circles under his eyes. 

But Steve's hands are warm and firm, and there is brilliant strength in his touch, in the low, rich sound of his voice, that reassures Bucky. 

 

 _iii._

"The Winter Soldier Papers are held by the archives in Washington, DC. S.H.I.E.L.D. archives," Steve adds. The frown on his forehead deepens and he closes are few of the open tabs on his phone. "Buck--" 

"I want to know. What was real and what was..." _Nightmares_ , Bucky stops the word from crossing his lips and lets his hair fall into his face. He couldn't ask anyone but Steve to do this for him; he almost hates himself for asking, not just for the papers but for Steve to bear part of the burden of his past. "Who I was. _What_ I was." 

"That was never you. That was _never you_ ," Steve repeats. His jaw is set and stubborn and he looks as if he would raise hell in the Starbucks if anyone argued with him over Bucky's past. 

Suffice to say, however, a busy Starbucks in the middle of Brooklyn has no time or care for James Barnes's past as the Winter Soldier. Bucky feels himself move into the protective hand Steve rests on his arm nevertheless, feels himself relax and the tightness in his chest start to ease the smallest amount. 

"It's not your fault. That wasn't you," Steve says again. And god his voice is so low, so warm and low and _kind_. 

"I know. But I still did it, and ... and now you _know_." There's no other way to vocalize the crushing feeling inside his chest--Steve _knows_ now, he knows who Bucky is and what he's done. Not only has he found Bucky's past chronicled in some history book, but has seen it in Bucky's eyes, read how Bucky's past is written on his body, had heard the remnants of that past in Bucky's own voice, in this question for some paper trail that Fury tried to keep from him. 

"Okay," Steve says, voice still low and kind, "now I know." 

"I shouldn't have asked you, but... there isn't anyone else..." 

"Bucky," Steve says, then pauses. "Who else calls you that? Bucky Barnes," he murmurs and a small smile touches the corners of his mouth. 

"You--" Bucky replies. "Just you, nowadays," he realizes, and the pain in his chest lessens, skitters, then fades away, and he lets Steve reaches across the table to rest his smaller hands over Bucky's. "Only you." 

"Yeah? Yeah, that's right, Buck. Because you let me. Because you let me get to know you before you asked me to dig up a bunch of old paperwork for you. So that's right, _I know you_. We'll read those papers together, all right?" 

Bucky nods, slowly, and lifts his gaze to meet Steve's. After a moment, he shifts his hands so he can slip his fingers through Steve's and hold onto the strength and warmth he finds there. When he tightens his grip, a pink flush rises up over Steve's neck and ears and his tongue darts out just to touch the edge of his lips. 

 

 _iv._

He doesn't kiss Steve that Saturday morning, nor does he on the following Tuesday or Thursday at the library. Bucky reads about New York in the mid-twentieth century, he listens to music and radio shows, he watches Steve's slim fingers slide over the spines of leather-bound books. He touches the small of Steve's back as they walk out of the library on Thursday and then again when they part for different subway stops. 

"You made me miss the boys I knew growing up, when I was a kid, when I first met you," Bucky says, a few weeks later, as they walk out of the library together again. "You reminded me of them--your voice..." 

"Not anymore?" Steve stops on the sidewalk and the wind catches his hair. 

The sun is setting and it's chilly outside, enough that Steve's shoulders hunch down into his jacket when the wind picks up. Desire flares up hot and sharp in Bucky's chest, then settles into a mellow warmth when Steve leans in closer to him. He touches Steve's hair, then the side of his face. 

"I don't miss them anymore," he says and kisses Steve. 

It's a slow kiss, careful and warm, and Steve leans up into it with such a cautious eagerness that catches Bucky right in the center of his chest, at the back of his throat. He kisses Steve until his mouth learns the feel of Steve's again his own, until he can feel Steve sigh against his lips and murmur his name; he kisses Steve like he's never kissed anyone before, like there's never been anyone but Steve. 

"Good." Steve leans away a little, far enough to put the space of a breath between them, and brushes the softest, lingering kiss against Bucky's lower lip before drawing him close once more. 

 

_v._

They read the Winter Soldier files together, photocopies of photocopies and printouts of old microfiche littering the tiny kitchen table in Steve's studio apartment in Red Hook. Steve makes a pot of very hot, very strong coffee, makes Bucky drink a cup and have something to eat before they start, and won't let Bucky read anything until he's seen it first. 

To be fair, Steve probably reads more than Bucky does. After two hours he stands from the table, stretches with a sigh that tugs his white tee shirt up over his hips and flat stomach, and then gives Bucky a frown. 

"That's enough for today." 

When Bucky doesn't say anything, when all he can do is try to keep his hands from shaking as he holds one of the photocopies, Steve reaches over and takes the paper from him. 

"That's enough, Buck. Let's go for a walk, and then lie down for a little while."

Steve sweeps the papers from the table and dumps them all into a box. He pours Bucky a glass of apple juice and makes him drink, then touches the side of Bucky's face. When Bucky leans into the touch, Steve keeps on stroking his face and leans down to kiss him lightly on the forehead. 

"We'll go for a walk and then rest, okay?" 

"Okay, Steve," Bucky says. He's relieved and drained and thankful, and he can't help the way he pulls Steve down into his lap to hold him tight, and for long time before they go outside. 

 

 _vi._

The next time they rifle through the papers again, Bucky's been on three missions with the Avengers, has learned as much about Steve's past as Steve has about his, and spring has long faded into a summer that then melts into a honey-warm New York autumn. 

Steve sketches Bucky while he reads, adding the sketches to the piles of paper, and then he sketches the two of them together, barefoot and sprawled over his floor, surrounded by paper and coffee cups. 

Bucky goes through the sketches and saves them from the detritus of his past, stacks them together into a chronology of the long fall afternoon, and pulls Steve right into his lap, and wraps the palms of his hands around the curve of Steve's hips. 

He has this, now: a pile of pencil sketches, long fall afternoons, Steve's forehead pressed to his. 

It's the last time they look at the Winter Soldier papers. 

 

_vii._

Bucky stretches out on the bed next to Steve and touches the side of Steve's face. His thumb traces the rise of Steve's cheekbone and strokes gently when Steve opens his eyes, blurred with sleep. He's been gone for three weeks on a longer mission and by the end of those three weeks, every part of him had ached to be with Steve, to spend his mornings in Steve's small office and to walk from the warmth of the library onto the winter-cold steps outside. 

It's past midnight now, though, and what his body needs is sleep. Sleep and the warmth of Steve's body curled in close to his. 

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, soft and reverent, and smiles when a faint blush rises up Steve's cheeks. 

"Buck--" Steve says, and opens his eyes. He stops when Bucky strokes the side of his face and leans right into the touch, pressing his cheek against the palm of Bucky's hand. 

Against the palm of his left hand. Against shifting metal and the quiet clockwork-whir of his wrist. Inexplicably, against all the damage and the cold that the years have wrought. 

"So are you," Steve says, and he presses a kiss against the palm of Bucky's hand. 

 

❖ ❖ ❖

__

This is not the sound of a new man  
Or a crispy realization  
It's the sound of me unlocking and you lift away  
Your love will be  
Safe with me 

_Bon Iver, re: Stacks_


End file.
